ANNUS MEMORABILIS, 1789.

Go—thou art all unfit to shareThe pleasures of this placeWith such as its old tenants are,Creatures of gentler race.The squirrel here his hoard provides,Aware of wintry storms,And woodpeckers explore the sidesOf rugged oaks for worms.The sheep here smooths the knotted thornWith frictions of her fleece;And here I wander eve and morn,Like her, a friend to peace.Ah!—I could pity thee exiledFrom this secure retreat—I would not lose it to be styledThe happiest of the great.But thou canst taste no calm delight;Thy pleasure is to showThy magnanimity in fight,Thy prowess—therefore, go—I care not whether east or north,So I no more may find thee;The angry muse thus sings thee forth,And claps the gate behind thee.

Go—thou art all unfit to shareThe pleasures of this placeWith such as its old tenants are,Creatures of gentler race.

The squirrel here his hoard provides,Aware of wintry storms,And woodpeckers explore the sidesOf rugged oaks for worms.

The sheep here smooths the knotted thornWith frictions of her fleece;And here I wander eve and morn,Like her, a friend to peace.

Ah!—I could pity thee exiledFrom this secure retreat—I would not lose it to be styledThe happiest of the great.

But thou canst taste no calm delight;Thy pleasure is to showThy magnanimity in fight,Thy prowess—therefore, go—

I care not whether east or north,So I no more may find thee;The angry muse thus sings thee forth,And claps the gate behind thee.

WRITTEN IN COMMEMORATION OF HIS MAJESTY'S HAPPY RECOVERY.

I ransack'd for a theme of song,Much ancient chronicle, and long;I read of bright embattled fields,Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields,Of chiefs, whose single arm could boastProwess to dissipate a host;Through tomes of fable and of dreamI sought an eligible theme,But none I found, or found them sharedAlready by some happier bard.To modern times, with truth to guideMy busy search, I next applied;Here cities won, and fleets dispersed,Urged loud a claim to be rehearsed,Deeds of unperishing renown,Our fathers' triumphs and our own.Thus as the bee, from bank to bower,Assiduous sips at every flower,But rests on none till that be foundWhere most nectareous sweets abound,So I, from theme to theme display'dIn many a page historic, stray'd,Siege after siege, fight after fight,Contemplating with small delight,(For feats of sanguinary hueNot always glitter in my view,)Till, settling on the current year,I found the far-sought treasure near.A theme for poetry divine,A theme to ennoble even mine,In memorable eighty-nine.The spring of eighty-nine shall beAn æra cherish'd long by me,Which joyful I will oft record,And thankful at my frugal board;For then the clouds of eighty-eight,That threaten'd England's trembling stateWith loss of what she least could spare,Her sovereign's tutelary care,One breath of heaven, that cried—Restore!Chased, never to assemble more:And for the richest crown on earth,If valued by its wearer's worth,The symbol of a righteous reignSat fast on George's brows again.Then peace and joy again possess'dOur Queen's long-agitated breast;Such joy and peace as can be knownBy sufferers like herself alone,Who losing, or supposing lost,The good on earth they valued most,For that dear sorrow's sake foregoAll hope of happiness below,Then suddenly regain the prize,And flash thanksgivings to the skies!O Queen of Albion, queen of isles!Since all thy tears were changed to smiles,The eyes, that never saw thee, shineWith joy not unallied to thine;Transports not chargeable with artIllume the land's remotest part,And strangers to the air of courts,Both in their toils and at their sports,The happiness of answer'd prayers,That gilds thy features, show in theirs.If they who on thy state attend,Awe-struck, before thy presence bend,'Tis but the natural effectOf grandeur that ensures respect;But she is something more than queenWho is beloved where never seen.

FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY.

Hear, Lord, the song of praise and prayer,In heaven thy dwelling place,From infants made the public care,And taught to seek thy face.Thanks for thy word, and for thy day,And grant us, we implore,Never to waste in sinful playThy holy sabbaths more.Thanks that we hear,—but O impartTo each desires sincere,That we may listen with our heart,And learn as well as hear.For if vain thoughts the minds engageOf older far than we,What hope, that, at our heedless age,Our minds should e'er be free?Much hope, if thou our spirits takeUnder thy gracious sway,Who canst the wisest wiser make,And babes as wise as they.Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows,A sun that ne'er declines,And be thy mercies shower'd on thoseWho placed us where it shines.

Hear, Lord, the song of praise and prayer,In heaven thy dwelling place,From infants made the public care,And taught to seek thy face.

Thanks for thy word, and for thy day,And grant us, we implore,Never to waste in sinful playThy holy sabbaths more.

Thanks that we hear,—but O impartTo each desires sincere,That we may listen with our heart,And learn as well as hear.

For if vain thoughts the minds engageOf older far than we,What hope, that, at our heedless age,Our minds should e'er be free?

Much hope, if thou our spirits takeUnder thy gracious sway,Who canst the wisest wiser make,And babes as wise as they.

Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows,A sun that ne'er declines,And be thy mercies shower'd on thoseWho placed us where it shines.

SUBJOINED TO THE YEARLY BILL OF MORTALITY OF THE PARISH OF ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON,[826]ANNO DOMINI 1787.

Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,Regumque turres.—Horace.Pale death with equal foot strikes wide the doorOf royal halls and hovels of the poor.While thirteen moons saw smoothly runThe Nen's barge-laden wave,All these, life's rambling journey done,Have found their home, the grave.Was man (frail always) made more frailThan in foregoing years?Did famine or did plague prevail,That so much death appears?No; these were vigorous as their sires,Nor plague nor famine came;This annual tribute Death requires,And never waves his claim.Like crowded forest trees we stand,And some are mark'd to fall;The axe will smite at God's command,And soon shall smite us all.Green as the bay tree, ever green,With its new foliage on,The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen,I pass'd—and they were gone.Read, ye that run, the awful truthWith which I charge my page;A worm is in the bud of youth,And at the root of age.No present health can health ensureFor yet an hour to come;No medicine, though it oft can cure,Can always balk the tomb.And O! that humble as my lot,And scorn'd as is my strain,These truths, though known, too much forgot,I may not teach in vain.So prays your clerk with all his heart,And, ere he quits the pen,Begsyoufor once to takehispart,And answer all—Amen!

Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,Regumque turres.—Horace.

Pale death with equal foot strikes wide the doorOf royal halls and hovels of the poor.

While thirteen moons saw smoothly runThe Nen's barge-laden wave,All these, life's rambling journey done,Have found their home, the grave.

Was man (frail always) made more frailThan in foregoing years?Did famine or did plague prevail,That so much death appears?

No; these were vigorous as their sires,Nor plague nor famine came;This annual tribute Death requires,And never waves his claim.

Like crowded forest trees we stand,And some are mark'd to fall;The axe will smite at God's command,And soon shall smite us all.

Green as the bay tree, ever green,With its new foliage on,The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen,I pass'd—and they were gone.

Read, ye that run, the awful truthWith which I charge my page;A worm is in the bud of youth,And at the root of age.

No present health can health ensureFor yet an hour to come;No medicine, though it oft can cure,Can always balk the tomb.

And O! that humble as my lot,And scorn'd as is my strain,These truths, though known, too much forgot,I may not teach in vain.

So prays your clerk with all his heart,And, ere he quits the pen,Begsyoufor once to takehispart,And answer all—Amen!

FOR THE YEAR 1788.

Quod adest, mementoComponere æquus. Cætera fluminisRitu feruntur.—

Horace.

Improve the present hour, for all besideIs a mere feather on a torrent's tide.. . . . . . .Could I, from heaven inspired, as sure presageTo whom the rising year shall prove his last,As I can number in my punctual page,And item down the victims of the past;How each would trembling wait the mournful sheet,On which the press might stamp him next to die;And, reading here his sentence, how repleteWith anxious meaning, heavenward turn his eye!Time then would seem more precious than the joysIn which he sports away the treasure now;And prayer more seasonable than the noiseOf drunkards, or the music-drawing bow.Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brinkOf this world's hazardous and headlong shore,Forced to a pause, would feel it good to think,Told that his setting sun must rise no more.Ah self-deceived! Could I prophetic sayWho next is fated, and who next to fall,The rest might then seem privileged to play;But, naming none, the Voice now speaks toAll.Observe the dappled foresters, how lightThey bound and airy o'er the sunny glade—One falls—the rest, wide scatter'd with affright,Vanish at once into the darkest shade.Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn'd,Still need repeated warnings, and at last,A thousand awful admonitions scorn'd,Die self-accused of life run all to waste!Sad waste! for which no after-thrift atones.The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin;Dewdrops may deck the turf that hides the bones,But tears of godly grief ne'er flow within.Learn then, ye living! by the mouths be taughtOf all these sepulchres, instructors true,That, soon or late, death also is your lot,And the next opening grave may yawn for you.

Improve the present hour, for all besideIs a mere feather on a torrent's tide.. . . . . . .

Could I, from heaven inspired, as sure presageTo whom the rising year shall prove his last,As I can number in my punctual page,And item down the victims of the past;

How each would trembling wait the mournful sheet,On which the press might stamp him next to die;And, reading here his sentence, how repleteWith anxious meaning, heavenward turn his eye!

Time then would seem more precious than the joysIn which he sports away the treasure now;And prayer more seasonable than the noiseOf drunkards, or the music-drawing bow.

Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brinkOf this world's hazardous and headlong shore,Forced to a pause, would feel it good to think,Told that his setting sun must rise no more.

Ah self-deceived! Could I prophetic sayWho next is fated, and who next to fall,The rest might then seem privileged to play;But, naming none, the Voice now speaks toAll.

Observe the dappled foresters, how lightThey bound and airy o'er the sunny glade—One falls—the rest, wide scatter'd with affright,Vanish at once into the darkest shade.

Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn'd,Still need repeated warnings, and at last,A thousand awful admonitions scorn'd,Die self-accused of life run all to waste!

Sad waste! for which no after-thrift atones.The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin;Dewdrops may deck the turf that hides the bones,But tears of godly grief ne'er flow within.

Learn then, ye living! by the mouths be taughtOf all these sepulchres, instructors true,That, soon or late, death also is your lot,And the next opening grave may yawn for you.

FOR THE YEAR 1789.

—Placidâque ibi demum morte quievit.—Virg.

There calm at length he breathed his soul away.

"O most delightful hour by manExperienced here below,The hour that terminates his span,His folly and his woe!"Worlds should not bribe me back to treadAgain life's dreary waste,To see again my day o'erspreadWith all the gloomy past."My home henceforth is in the skies,Earth, seas, and sun, adieu!All heaven unfolded to my eyes,I have no sight for you."So spake Aspasio, firm possess'dOf faith's supporting rod,Then breathed his soul into its rest,The bosom of his God.He was a man among the fewSincere on virtue's side;And all his strength from Scripture drew,To hourly use applied.That rule he prized, by that he fear'd,He hated, hoped, and loved;Nor ever frown'd, or sad appear'd,But when his heart had roved.For he was frail as thou or I,And evil felt within;But when he felt it, heaved a sigh,And loathed the thought of sin.Such lived Aspasio; and at lastCall'd up from earth to heaven,The gulf of death triumphant pass'd,By gales of blessing driven.His joys be mine, each reader cries,When my last hour arrives:They shall be yours, my verse replies,Such only be your lives.

"O most delightful hour by manExperienced here below,The hour that terminates his span,His folly and his woe!

"Worlds should not bribe me back to treadAgain life's dreary waste,To see again my day o'erspreadWith all the gloomy past.

"My home henceforth is in the skies,Earth, seas, and sun, adieu!All heaven unfolded to my eyes,I have no sight for you."

So spake Aspasio, firm possess'dOf faith's supporting rod,Then breathed his soul into its rest,The bosom of his God.

He was a man among the fewSincere on virtue's side;And all his strength from Scripture drew,To hourly use applied.

That rule he prized, by that he fear'd,He hated, hoped, and loved;Nor ever frown'd, or sad appear'd,But when his heart had roved.

For he was frail as thou or I,And evil felt within;But when he felt it, heaved a sigh,And loathed the thought of sin.

Such lived Aspasio; and at lastCall'd up from earth to heaven,The gulf of death triumphant pass'd,By gales of blessing driven.

His joys be mine, each reader cries,When my last hour arrives:They shall be yours, my verse replies,Such only be your lives.

FOR THE YEAR 1790.

Ne commonentem recta sperne.—Buchanan.

Despise not my good counsel.

He who sits from day to dayWhere the prison'd lark is hung,Heedless of his loudest lay,Hardly knows that he has sung.Where the watchman in his roundNightly lifts his voice on high,None, accustom'd to the sound,Wakes the sooner for his cry.So your verse-man I, and clerk,Yearly in my song proclaimDeath at hand—yourselves his mark—And the foe's unerring aim.Duly at my time I come,Publishing to all aloud—Soon the grave must be your home,And your only suit, a shroud,But the monitory strain,Oft repeated in your ears,Seems to sound too much in vain,Wins no notice, wakes no fears.Can a truth, by all confess'dOf such magnitude and weight,Grow, by being oft impress'd,Trivial as a parrot's prate?Pleasure's call attention wins,Hear it often as we may;New as ever seem our sins,Though committed every day.Death and judgment, heaven and hell—These alone, so often heard,No more move us than the bellWhen some stranger is interr'd.O then, ere the turf or tombCover us from every eye,Spirit of instruction, come,Make us learn that we must die.

He who sits from day to dayWhere the prison'd lark is hung,Heedless of his loudest lay,Hardly knows that he has sung.

Where the watchman in his roundNightly lifts his voice on high,None, accustom'd to the sound,Wakes the sooner for his cry.

So your verse-man I, and clerk,Yearly in my song proclaimDeath at hand—yourselves his mark—And the foe's unerring aim.

Duly at my time I come,Publishing to all aloud—Soon the grave must be your home,And your only suit, a shroud,

But the monitory strain,Oft repeated in your ears,Seems to sound too much in vain,Wins no notice, wakes no fears.

Can a truth, by all confess'dOf such magnitude and weight,Grow, by being oft impress'd,Trivial as a parrot's prate?

Pleasure's call attention wins,Hear it often as we may;New as ever seem our sins,Though committed every day.

Death and judgment, heaven and hell—These alone, so often heard,No more move us than the bellWhen some stranger is interr'd.

O then, ere the turf or tombCover us from every eye,Spirit of instruction, come,Make us learn that we must die.

FOR THE YEAR 1792.

Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas,Atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatumSubjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari!

Virg.

Happy the mortal who has traced effectsTo their first cause, cast fear beneath his feet,And death and roaring hell's voracious fires!

Thankless for favours from on high,Man thinks he fades too soon;Though 'tis his privilege to die,Would he improve the boon.But he, not wise enough to scanHis blest concerns aright,Would gladly stretch life's little spanTo ages, if he might.To ages in a world of pain,To ages, where he goesGall'd by affliction's heavy chain,And hopeless of repose.Strange fondness of the human heart,Enamour'd of its harm!Strange world, that costs it so much smart,And still has power to charm.Whence has the world her magic power?Why deem we death a foe?Recoil from weary life's best hour,And covet longer woe?The cause is Conscience—Conscience oftHer tale of guilt renews:Her voice is terrible though soft,And dread of death ensues.Then anxious to be longer sparedMan mourns his fleeting breath:All evils then seem light, comparedWith the approach of death.'Tis judgment shakes him: there's the fearThat prompts the wish to stay:He has incurr'd a long arrear,And must despair to pay.Pay!—follow Christ, and all is paid;is death your peace ensures;Think on the grave wherehewas laid,And calm descend toyours.

Thankless for favours from on high,Man thinks he fades too soon;Though 'tis his privilege to die,Would he improve the boon.

But he, not wise enough to scanHis blest concerns aright,Would gladly stretch life's little spanTo ages, if he might.

To ages in a world of pain,To ages, where he goesGall'd by affliction's heavy chain,And hopeless of repose.

Strange fondness of the human heart,Enamour'd of its harm!Strange world, that costs it so much smart,And still has power to charm.

Whence has the world her magic power?Why deem we death a foe?Recoil from weary life's best hour,And covet longer woe?

The cause is Conscience—Conscience oftHer tale of guilt renews:Her voice is terrible though soft,And dread of death ensues.

Then anxious to be longer sparedMan mourns his fleeting breath:All evils then seem light, comparedWith the approach of death.

'Tis judgment shakes him: there's the fearThat prompts the wish to stay:He has incurr'd a long arrear,And must despair to pay.

Pay!—follow Christ, and all is paid;is death your peace ensures;Think on the grave wherehewas laid,And calm descend toyours.

FOR THE YEAR 1793.

De sacris autem hæc sit una sententia, ut conserventur.

Cic. de Leg.

But let us all concur in this one sentiment, that things sacred be inviolate.

He lives who lives to God alone,And all are dead beside;For other source than God is noneWhence life can be suppliedTo live to God is to requiteHis love as best we may:To make his precepts our delight,His promises our stay.But life, within a narrow ringOf giddy joys comprised,Is falsely named, and no such thing,But rather death disguised.Can life in them deserve the name,Who only live to proveFor what poor toys they can disclaimAn endless life above?Who, much diseased, yet nothing feel;Much menaced, nothing dread;Have wounds, which only God can heal,Yet never ask his aid?Who deem his house a useless place,Faith, want of common sense;And ardour in the Christian race,A hypocrite's pretence?Who trample order; and the dayWhich God asserts his ownDishonour with unhallow'd play,And worship chance alone?If scorn of God's commands, impress'dOn word and deed, implyThe better part of man unbless'dWith life that cannot die;Such want it, and that want uncuredTill man resigns his breath,Speaks him a criminal, assuredOf everlasting death.Sad period to a pleasant course!Yet so will God repaySabbaths profaned without remorse,And mercy cast away.

He lives who lives to God alone,And all are dead beside;For other source than God is noneWhence life can be supplied

To live to God is to requiteHis love as best we may:To make his precepts our delight,His promises our stay.

But life, within a narrow ringOf giddy joys comprised,Is falsely named, and no such thing,But rather death disguised.

Can life in them deserve the name,Who only live to proveFor what poor toys they can disclaimAn endless life above?

Who, much diseased, yet nothing feel;Much menaced, nothing dread;Have wounds, which only God can heal,Yet never ask his aid?

Who deem his house a useless place,Faith, want of common sense;And ardour in the Christian race,A hypocrite's pretence?

Who trample order; and the dayWhich God asserts his ownDishonour with unhallow'd play,And worship chance alone?

If scorn of God's commands, impress'dOn word and deed, implyThe better part of man unbless'dWith life that cannot die;

Such want it, and that want uncuredTill man resigns his breath,Speaks him a criminal, assuredOf everlasting death.

Sad period to a pleasant course!Yet so will God repaySabbaths profaned without remorse,And mercy cast away.

STARVED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE.

Time was when I was free as air,The thistle's downy seed my fare,My drink the morning dew;I perch'd at will on every spray,My form genteel, my plumage gay,My strains for ever new.But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,And form genteel were all in vain,And of a transient date;For, caught and caged, and starved to death,In dying sighs my little breathSoon pass'd the wiry grate.Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes,And thanks for this effectual closeAnd cure of every ill!More cruelty could none express;And I, if you had shown me less,Had been your prisoner still.

Time was when I was free as air,The thistle's downy seed my fare,My drink the morning dew;I perch'd at will on every spray,My form genteel, my plumage gay,My strains for ever new.

But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,And form genteel were all in vain,And of a transient date;For, caught and caged, and starved to death,In dying sighs my little breathSoon pass'd the wiry grate.

Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes,And thanks for this effectual closeAnd cure of every ill!More cruelty could none express;And I, if you had shown me less,Had been your prisoner still.

The pine-apples, in triple row,Were basking hot, and all in blow;A bee of most discerning tastePerceived the fragrance as he pass'd,On eager wing the spoiler came,And search'd for crannies in the frame,Urged his attempt on every side,To every pane his trunk applied;But still in vain, the frame was tight,And only pervious to the light:Thus having wasted half the day,He trimm'd his flight another way.Methinks, I said, in thee I findThe sin and madness of mankind.To joys forbidden man aspires,Consumes his soul with vain desires;Folly the spring of his pursuit,And disappointment all the fruit.While Cynthio ogles, as she passes,The nymph between two chariot glasses,She is the pineapple, and heThe silly unsuccessful bee.The maid who views with pensive airThe show-glass fraught with glittering ware,Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets,But sighs at thought of empty pockets;Like thine, her appetite is keen,But ah, the cruel glass between!Our dear delights are often such,Exposed to view, but not to touch;The sight our foolish heart inflames,We long for pine-apples in frames;With hopeless wish one looks and lingers;One breaks the glass, and cuts his fingers;But they whom truth and wisdom leadCan gather honey from a weed.

Fortune! I thank thee: gentle goddess! thanks!Not that my muse, though bashful, shall denyShe would have thank'd thee rather hadst thou castA treasure in her way; for neither meedOf early breakfast, to dispel the fumes,And bowel-racking pains of emptiness,Nor noontide feast, nor evening's cool repast,Hopes she from this—presumptuous, though, perhapsThe cobbler, leather-carving artist! might.Nathless she thanks thee and accepts thy boon,Whatever; not as erst the fabled cock,Vain-glorious fool! unknowing what he found,Spurn'd the rich gem thou gavest him. Wherefore, ah!Why not on me that favour, (worthier sure!)Conferr'dst thou, goddess! Thou art blind thou say'st:Enough!—thy blindness shall excuse the deed.Nor does my muse no benefit exhaleFrom this thy scant indulgence!—even hereHints worthy sage philosophy are found;Illustrious hints, to moralize my song!This ponderous heel of perforated hideCompact, with pegs indented, many a row,Haply (for such its massy form bespeaks)The weighty tread of some rude peasant clownUpbore: on this, supported oft, he stretch'd,With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe,Flattening the stubborn clod, till cruel time(What will not cruel time?) on a wry stepSever'd the strict cohesion; when, alas!He, who could erst, with even, equal pace,Pursue his destined way with symmetry,And some proportion form'd, now on one sideCurtail'd and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boys,Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop!With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on.Thus fares it oft with other than the feetOf humble villager—the statesman thus,Up the steep road where proud ambition leads,Aspiring, first uninterrupted windsHis prosperous way; nor fears miscarriage foul,While policy prevails, and friends prove true;But, that support soon failing, by him leftOn whom he most depended, basely left,Betray'd, deserted; from his airy heightHeadlong he falls; and through the rest of lifeDrags the dull load of disappointment on.

1748.

ON READING RICHARDSON'S HISTORY OF SIR CHARLES GRANDISON.

Say, ye apostate and profane,Wretches, who blush not to disdainAllegiance to your God,—Did e'er your idly wasted loveOf virtue for her sake removeAnd lift you from the crowd?Would you the race of glory run,Know, the devout, and they alone,Are equal to the task:The labours of the illustrious courseFar other than the unaided forceOf human vigour ask.To arm against reputed illThe patient heart too brave to feelThe tortures of despair:Nor safer yet high-crested pride,When wealth flows in with every tideTo gain admittance there.To rescue from the tyrant's swordThe oppress'd; unseen and unimplored,To cheer the face of woe;From lawless insult to defendAn orphan's right—a fallen friend,And a forgiven foe;These, these distinguish from the crowd,And these alone, the great and good,The guardians of mankind;Whose bosoms with these virtues heave,O with what matchless speed they leaveThe multitude behind!Then ask ye, from what cause on earthVirtues like these derive their birth?Derived from Heaven alone,Full on that favour'd breast they shine,Where faith and resignation joinTo call the blessing down.Such is that heart:—but while the museThy theme, O Richardson, pursues,Her feeble spirits faint:She cannot reach, and would not wrong,The subject for an angel's song,The hero, and the saint!

Say, ye apostate and profane,Wretches, who blush not to disdainAllegiance to your God,—Did e'er your idly wasted loveOf virtue for her sake removeAnd lift you from the crowd?

Would you the race of glory run,Know, the devout, and they alone,Are equal to the task:The labours of the illustrious courseFar other than the unaided forceOf human vigour ask.

To arm against reputed illThe patient heart too brave to feelThe tortures of despair:Nor safer yet high-crested pride,When wealth flows in with every tideTo gain admittance there.

To rescue from the tyrant's swordThe oppress'd; unseen and unimplored,To cheer the face of woe;From lawless insult to defendAn orphan's right—a fallen friend,And a forgiven foe;

These, these distinguish from the crowd,And these alone, the great and good,The guardians of mankind;Whose bosoms with these virtues heave,O with what matchless speed they leaveThe multitude behind!

Then ask ye, from what cause on earthVirtues like these derive their birth?Derived from Heaven alone,Full on that favour'd breast they shine,Where faith and resignation joinTo call the blessing down.

Such is that heart:—but while the museThy theme, O Richardson, pursues,Her feeble spirits faint:She cannot reach, and would not wrong,The subject for an angel's song,The hero, and the saint!

1753.

'Tis not that I design to robThee of thy birthright, gentle Bob,For thou art born sole heir, and single,Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle;Not that I mean, while thus I knitMy threadbare sentiments together,To show my genius or my wit,When God and you know I have neither;Or such as might be better shownBy letting poetry alone.'Tis not with either of these viewsThat I presumed to address the muse:But to divert a fierce banditti,(Sworn foes to every thing that's witty!)That, with a black, infernal train,Make cruel inroads in my brain,And daily threaten to drive thenceMy little garrison of sense;The fierce banditti which I meanAre gloomy thoughts led on by spleen.Then there's another reason yet,Which is, that I may fairly quitThe debt, which justly became dueThe moment when I heard from you;And you might grumble, crony mine,If paid in any other coin;Since twenty sheets of lead, God knows,(I would say twenty sheets of prose,)Can ne'er be deem'd worth half so muchAs one of gold, and yours was such.Thus, the preliminaries settled,I fairly find myself pitchkettled,[827]And cannot see, though few see better,How I shall hammer out a letter.First, for a thought—since all agree—A thought—I have it—let me see—'Tis gone again—plague on't! I thoughtI had it—but I have it not.Dame Gurton thus, and Hodge her son,That useful thing, her needle, gone!Rake well the cinders—sweep the floor,And sift the dust behind the door;While eager Hodge beholds the prizeIn old grimalkin's glaring eyes;And Gammer finds it, on her knees,In every shining straw she sees.This simile were apt enough;But I've another, critic-proof!The virtuoso thus, at noon,Broiling beneath a July sun,The gilded butterfly pursues,O'er hedge and ditch, through gaps and mews;And, after many a vain essay,To captivate the tempting prey,Gives him at length the lucky pat,And has him safe beneath his hat:Then lifts it gently from the ground;But, ah! 'tis lost as soon as found;Culprit his liberty regains,Flits out of sight, and mocks his pains.The sense was dark; 'twas therefore fitWith simile to illustrate it;But as too much obscures the sight,As often as too little light,We have our similes cut short,For matters of more grave import.That Matthew's numbers run with ease,Each man of common sense agrees!All men of common sense allowThat Robert's lines are easy too:Where then the preference shall we place,Or how do justice in this case?Matthew (says Fame,) with endless painsSmoothed and refined the meanest strains;Nor suffer'd one ill chosen rhymeTo escape him at the idlest time;And thus o'er all a lustre cast,That, while the language lives shall last.A'nt please your ladyship (quoth I,)For 'tis my business to reply;Sure so much labour, so much toil,Bespeak at least a stubborn soil:Theirs be the laurel-wreath decreed,Who both write well, and write full speed!Who throw their Helicon aboutAs freely as a conduit spout!Friend Robert, thus likechien savantLets fall a poemen passant,Nor needs his genuine ore refine—'Tis ready polish'd from the mine.

And cannot see, though few see better,How I shall hammer out a letter.First, for a thought—since all agree—A thought—I have it—let me see—'Tis gone again—plague on't! I thoughtI had it—but I have it not.Dame Gurton thus, and Hodge her son,That useful thing, her needle, gone!Rake well the cinders—sweep the floor,And sift the dust behind the door;While eager Hodge beholds the prizeIn old grimalkin's glaring eyes;And Gammer finds it, on her knees,In every shining straw she sees.This simile were apt enough;But I've another, critic-proof!The virtuoso thus, at noon,Broiling beneath a July sun,The gilded butterfly pursues,O'er hedge and ditch, through gaps and mews;And, after many a vain essay,To captivate the tempting prey,Gives him at length the lucky pat,And has him safe beneath his hat:Then lifts it gently from the ground;But, ah! 'tis lost as soon as found;Culprit his liberty regains,Flits out of sight, and mocks his pains.The sense was dark; 'twas therefore fitWith simile to illustrate it;But as too much obscures the sight,As often as too little light,We have our similes cut short,For matters of more grave import.That Matthew's numbers run with ease,Each man of common sense agrees!All men of common sense allowThat Robert's lines are easy too:Where then the preference shall we place,Or how do justice in this case?Matthew (says Fame,) with endless painsSmoothed and refined the meanest strains;Nor suffer'd one ill chosen rhymeTo escape him at the idlest time;And thus o'er all a lustre cast,That, while the language lives shall last.A'nt please your ladyship (quoth I,)For 'tis my business to reply;Sure so much labour, so much toil,Bespeak at least a stubborn soil:Theirs be the laurel-wreath decreed,Who both write well, and write full speed!Who throw their Helicon aboutAs freely as a conduit spout!Friend Robert, thus likechien savantLets fall a poemen passant,Nor needs his genuine ore refine—'Tis ready polish'd from the mine.

WHICH HAPPENED IN JANUARY, 1779.

Where Humber pours his rich commercial streamThere dwelt a wretch, who breathed but to blaspheme;In subterraneous caves his life he led,Black as the mine in which he wrought for bread.When on a day, emerging from the deep,A sabbath-day, (such sabbaths thousands keep!)The wages of his weekly toil he boreTo buy a cock—whose blood might win him more;As if the noblest of the feather'd kindWere but for battle and for death design'd;As if the consecrated hours were meantFor sport, to minds on cruelty intent;It chanced (such chances Providence obey)He met a fellow labourer on the way,Whose heart the same desires had once inflamed;But now the savage temper was reclaim'd,Persuasion on his lips had taken place;For all plead well who plead the cause of grace.His iron heart with scripture he assail'd,Woo'd him to hear a sermon, and prevail'd.His faithful bow the mighty preacher drew,Swift as the lightning-glimpse the arrow flew.He wept; he trembled; cast his eyes around,To find a worse than he; but none he found.He felt his sins, and wonder'd he should feel.Grace made the wound, and grace alone could heal.Now farewell oaths, and blasphemies, and lies!He quits the sinner's for the martyr's prize.That holy day was wash'd with many a tear,Gilded with hope, yet shaded too by fear.The next, his swarthy brethren of the mineLearn'd, by his altered speech, the change divine!Laugh'd when they should have wept, and swore the dayWas nigh when he would swear as fast as they."No," said the penitent, "such words shall shareThis breath no more; devoted now to prayer.O! if Thou seest (thine eye the future sees)That I shall yet again blaspheme, like these;Now strike me to the ground on which I kneel,Ere yet this heart relapses into steel;Now take me to that heaven I once defied,Thy presence, thy embrace!"—He spoke, and died!

That ocean you have late survey'd,Those rocks I too have seen;But I, afflicted and dismay'd,You, tranquil and serene.You from the flood-controlling steepSaw stretch'd before your view,With conscious joy, the threatening deep,No longer such to you.To me the waves, that ceaseless brokeUpon the dangerous coast,Hoarsely and ominously spokeOf all my treasure lost.Your sea of troubles you have past,And found the peaceful shore;I, tempest-toss'd, and wreck'd at last,Come home to port no more.

That ocean you have late survey'd,Those rocks I too have seen;But I, afflicted and dismay'd,You, tranquil and serene.

You from the flood-controlling steepSaw stretch'd before your view,With conscious joy, the threatening deep,No longer such to you.

To me the waves, that ceaseless brokeUpon the dangerous coast,Hoarsely and ominously spokeOf all my treasure lost.

Your sea of troubles you have past,And found the peaceful shore;I, tempest-toss'd, and wreck'd at last,Come home to port no more.

Oct. 1780.

What is there in the vale of lifeHalf so delightful as a wife,When friendship, love, and peace combineTo stamp the marriage-bond divine?The stream of pure and genuine loveDerives its current from above;And earth a second Eden shows,Where'er the healing water flows:But ah, if from the dykes and drainsOf sensual nature's feverish veins,Lust, like a lawless headstrong flood,Impregnated with ooze and mud,Descending fast on every side,Once mingles with the sacred tide,Farewell the soul-enlivening scene!The banks that wore a smiling green,With rank defilement overspread,Bewail their flowery beauties dead.The stream polluted, dark, and dull,Diffused into a Stygian pool,Through life's last melancholy yearsIs fed with overflowing tears:Complaints supply the zephyr's part,And sighs that heave a breaking heart.

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